


Hearts on Three (Satan x Reader)

by sondepoch



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: AU, College AU, F/M, FRIENDS TO BEST FRIENDS TO LOVERS, Female Reader, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, High School AU, Mild Swearing, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Wholesome, a burn so slow you're going to wish these characters were real just so you could slap them, ceo satan, no like a really slow slow burn, recruited feelings, volleyball athlete reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:48:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27362242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sondepoch/pseuds/sondepoch
Summary: The athlete and the nerd. The rich kid and the scholarship student. The girl who will constantly joke about breaking your knee caps and the boy who will actually do it.There are so many ways to describe your relationship with Satan. Too many, if you’re being honest. He’s your best friend. The smartest tutor you’ve ever had. He also spends thousands of dollars for you at the drop of a hat and holds your hand when you’re feeling down.And in the beginning, that's okay. Neither of you let yourselves get bogged down by labels, both of you content to just savor this newfound friendship.But deeper feelings always have a way of complicating things.And for better or for worse, you and Satan are no exception.
Relationships: Barbatos & Main Character (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Main Character & Solomon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Main Character/Satan (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Satan (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Reader, Satan/Solomon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 112





	1. Chapter 1

Volleyball is far from a quiet sport.

No matter what's happening, there's always noise: the sound of a hand colliding with a ball during a serve, the sound of shoes squeaking against the floor in preparation for a receive, the sound of hoarse shouts and strained calls whenever someone is open, ready to take the next touch.

The sport is built out of the fabric of communication, players constantly shouting to claim balls, ask for a toss, ready the team for defense.

Add in the cheers of the audience, and then it's as if the noise never stops.

"Game point, girls!" Your coach's words are almost inaudible, hovering under the roars of the audience who are still cheering for the last point. "Keep it up and we end this here!"

You echo similar words of encouragement to your team before finding your position, staring straight ahead as someone serves the ball over.

Your feet move the moment you hear the _slap_ of the serve, darting to your defense position as you bend your knees and crouch low. You can tell that the ball is going to soar back onto your side of the court as soon as you see the way the opposing team's libero has positioned her arms—the limbs perfectly parallel but far too deep for the ball to go anywhere but back to you after one touch.

"Freeball!" You shout, stepping away from defense to back into your approach line, but by the time you're ready to call for the ball, your setter has already tossed to the right-side hitter.

Inwardly, you can't help but feel a pang of jealousy at that. You know it's stupid, that you're the one person on the team who's probably touched the ball more than anyone else, but your fingers ache for more. Adrenaline runs through your veins thicker than blood at this point, and all you know is that you want it to be _you_ who ends this match.

"Back, back!" The team's libero calls the ball as she positions herself under it. This time, it bounces off her arms and sails straight into the hands of the setter, who tosses it to the outside hitter.

But then, the team sends the ball flying straight toward your defense specialist.

It's the worst mistake they can make, with match point weighing against them.

You lock eyes with your team's setter the second you sense the trajectory of the ball, mirth coloring both your expressions as you collectively realize that the match is as good as won. As expected, the ball arches into the setter's hands within seconds, and then you've begun your approach, your feet tracing the familiar _left-right-left_ pattern before you jump up, flying high.

You don't bother calling for the ball, seeing no need to alert the setter of your readiness. You already expect her to toss to you—the look in her eyes earlier was practically screaming it.

What you don't expect is for your silence to reward you with an empty defense, the entire court diving to block the other hitter as the girl on the other side of the court calls for the ball at the top of her lungs, none of them realizing that the ball is being delivered to _you_ until it's too late.

Another mistake.

The last one they'll make in this game.

The ball connects with your hand at the peak of your jump, when you're so impossibly high above the net that you can see the disbelief on your opponents' faces even as you jerk your arm down and slam the ball into the ground, letting it fall with enough force to make every one of them flinch.

The cheers begin before your feet have even landed on the ground.

You don't hear the referee when he blows the whistle, the sound of it drowned out by the whooping and hollering of your school in the bleachers, all of them screaming in support for what was definitely one of the most intense matches you've had thus far.

A grin spreads across your face, proud and confident.

Your team lines up behind you within seconds, all of them eager to shake hands with the team and then break off to continue celebrating. It's all over so fast, and you don't even have time to begin shifting impatiently from foot to foot before the girls are done, arms thrown up in celebration as they dive into a celebratory huddle in the center of the court.

You waste no time in running to join them, literally throwing yourself at the heap of girls and landing with your weight balanced on a poor sophomore as you high five everyone on the team.

"That was amazing, guys!" You don't bother jumping off the sophomore's back, making yourself comfortable as you begin going over everything you guys did right, and how proud you are of the team.

At least, that's what you would do.

A cough from behind you stops you in the middle of a sentence, and you turn around, already knowing who to expect.

"Hi, Headmaster Barbie!" You give an enthusiastic wave to the man in front of you.

"Please," He begins, his expression mortified as usual when you address him so casually. "Do not call me that. We have had this conversation before."

"Yeah, yeah," You mumble, hopping off the girl you'd been piggybacking on. "What can I do for you, Big B?"

The man sighs. He should have known better than to expect you to call him by his proper name. You've called him 'Headmaster Barbatos' precisely once in your life, back when you first met him. Never again.

"We discussed over the summer that you would be needing a tutor should your grades fall to a certain point—"

A small part of you cringes, having taken that memory and burnt it to a crisp. But now you remember that Barbatos _did_ tell you that if you wanted to stay on the volleyball team, you couldn't fail any classes.

And you're currently failing all of them but one.

"Gosh, Big B, I'd love to stay and chat, but I actually think I should go talk with my team for now. We just won, you know? I should be with them. Plus, I can't let them get too cocky. It's captain's responsibility to go over the things that went wrong, and I should head over—"

"Your co-captain appears to be fulfilling those duties just fine for you."

You can already hear your team's setter chastising one of the girls for calling a few balls at the beginning of the game that she should have left to the libero, and you bite your lip. As usual, Barbatos is one step ahead of you.

"Okay, but there are more than a few recruiters here today. I'm sure they want to speak with me. That last hit of mine was really flashy, y'know? Anyways, I should probably go. If you think about it, it's technically my future at stake. Wouldn't want to compromise that, so I'll just—"

Barbatos steps in front of you before you can slide out of the situation, sealing off your escape route.

"You spoke to four recruiters before the match began."

You want to correct him, want to tell him that you were actually approached by five, but you feel like that won't help your situation.

"Moving on, you have either ignored all the letters sent to your mailbox telling you to improve your grades, or you have attempted to fix them and have still failed. In light of this, the school has decided to assign you a tutor."

"You mean _you_ decided to assign me a tutor." You throw a pout at Barbatos, making it obvious that you hate the idea of spending any more time with studies than you have to.

"Yes, _I_ made the decision to assign you a tutor. The alternative was allowing you to fail all your finals this trimester, whereupon you would be kicked from the volleyball team, lose your scholarship, be removed from the school, and be forced to repeat your senior year elsewhere."

You say nothing, merely opting to frown at Barbatos's shoes. Stupid leather loafers. What business do they have looking so pristine?

"Anyway, I managed to find a suitable student willing to be your tutor, and—"

"A student?"

Your ears perk up at that. You were expecting that you'd have to sit for three hours a day with some old fart who doesn't know the first thing about volleyball. But if it's a kid your age, then...

"Yes." Barbatos gestures to the student next to him, whom you only now realize has been standing here the whole time. "This is Satan. He's going to be responsible for making sure you pass your midterm and final exams."

"A pleasure to meet you." The boy forces a curt smile to his face, nodding at you.

You stare at him.

Tall. Blonde. Green eyes. Attractive in the stereotypical sense, the kind of prettyboy one of your teammates might date. Looks like he might be athletically inclined, but his manicured nails make you doubt he's played any intense sports within the past three weeks.

"Hi!" You blurt, extending a hand out for Satan to shake. You internally cringe, wishing that Barbatos hadn't chosen to introduce you to your tutor immediately after a match. There's sweat dripping down the back of your neck, and you haven't even had time to drop your knee pads to your ankles. You can feel hair sticking to your forehead.

_I look like a mess._

Satan is enough of a gentleman not to comment on it, shaking your hand politely.

"Have we..." You study Satan's face, wondering if it's just your imagination. "Have we met? I feel like I've seen you before."

Satan arches an eyebrow, glancing at Barbatos. You might be reading their expressions wrong, but you swear they seem to be asking each other a silent question: _Is she serious?_

"You..." Barbatos shakes his head, sighing. "Satan is your student president. Your class elected him."

"Hm," You mumble, skeptical. "I don't think that's how I know him. I had a tournament during elections and all, so I didn't see any of this year's candidates."

The edge of Satan's lips quirks up in amusement.

"Satan has _been_ your student president," Barbatos informs you. He's practically hissing, his voice taking on the tone of a parent embarrassed over their child. "He's one of our best and most prolific students. Your class has elected him all four years. How have you not noticed?"

You frown, tapping your chin.

Now that Barbatos mentions it, you are pretty sure you've heard of Satan before. But that doesn't explain why you recognize his face. Your life has been centered around athletics from the day you found volleyball—and Satan might judge you for it, but you've never paid attention to the school executive board. Anyone who isn't an athlete gets lost in the sea of faces, and... _oh!_

"Freshman year!" You exclaim, eyes lighting up. "I saw you when we were in our freshman year! You were on the Varsity winter track team—and—and—and your mile time was 5:11.02! I remember because it was even faster than mine!"

You can see Satan's eyes widen the second you rattle that number off, definitely having forgotten it but recognizing it as correct the moment you mention it to him.

"How do you remember that?" He asks incredulously, looking almost mortified that you know him not for any of his academic achievements but for something he clearly attaches no significance to.

"How could I have forgotten?!" You ask in response, eyes wide in wonder at the realization that this absolute legend is going to be your tutor.

"See?" Barbatos smiles. "She has a good memory for things that she cares about. Your work is already cut out for you, Satan."

The man flashes you his usual cryptic smile, though you swear you detect a hint of pride in his gaze.

"Regardless, I'll leave you two to acquaint yourselves. Satan, I trust you'll be able to find your dorm. And _you,"_ Barbatos's expression morphs into one of warning, though the amusement beneath the mask is easy to find in his eyes. "Stay out of trouble."

"Thank you, Barbatos."

"Later, Big B!"

"That's Headmaster Barbatos to you both," He mumbles under his breath, shaking his head as he leaves you and Satan to go speak with your coach, likely to inform the man of your poor academic state.

Next to you, Satan laughs.

"I've never seen someone actually make that man express emotion." Satan flashes you an approving glance, impressed. "You really must be something special."

"I totally am!" You don't bother pretending to be humble. "Did you see my hit at the end of the game? It was perfect! I can't remember the last time I got to spike down on empty defense!"

You continue to chatter animatedly, waving your hands around wildly as you describe all your favorite plays from the game.

"Oh, oh, and did you see that feint my co-captain did in the first set? The other team was so confident when they went to block me—even _I_ was surprised when she just set it over! She's such a great girl, you know? You should come to more of our matches! Maybe we could even set up a day where I go to one of your track meets and you come to one of my matches, and—"

For the first time since you began rambling, Satan interrupts you.

"I don't do track anymore."

You blink.

"Wait, really?" A momentary stupor washes over your senses as you try to recall everyone on the Varsity track team. Sure enough, Satan's face doesn't come to mind—probably the reason why it took you so long to remember him in the first place. "Why'd you quit?"

Satan grins at you.

"I'll tell you when you get your first A."

* * *

Satan is utterly unsurprised to learn that his dorm is in the same building as yours. It's exactly the type of thing Barbatos would do—that slimy bastard—force the two of you together so that Satan has no choice _but_ to tutor you, bringing your grades up so that the school doesn't have to lose its oh so _precious_ star athlete.

Yeah, Satan isn't too excited at the prospect of having to tutor you.

And in truth, who would be?

An athlete like you screams trouble. Sure, you seem like the nicest person Satan has ever met and yeah, there's a certain quality about you that makes you impossible to dislike. But the blonde is too familiar with the world of jocks to fall for appearances.

He eyes the corner of your hand, studying the various envelopes that you balance between your fingers.

Some of them are letters from recruiters, he knows, and others are random brochures. He sees a sheet of notes your coach had handed to you, telling you to go over it so that you could run it by the girls tomorrow at practice, but most prominent is the variety of colorful envelopes that are wedged between your index and middle fingers.

_Confession letters._

Three of them, to be precise.

And this wasn't even one of your biggest games.

Those letters are probably the single biggest reason why Satan is eyeing you so warily. He doesn't know a single person in the world who can accept love letters on a regular basis and not let it get to their head. Hell, _Satan_ used to receive love letters on a regular basis, and _he_ let it get to his head.

It was almost strange, Satan remembers, watching you accept all three confession letters with such a sweet smile—your bright eyes never once taking on a tint of condescension even as suitors readily set you up for it.

The boy frowns to himself, shaking his head.

Satan knows what people are like. He knows what you're going to be like. Too much of the spotlight will burn anyone in the long run, and Satan's been hearing about your volleyball skills from his friends long enough to know that you've been under the spotlight longer than anyone should be. That kindness you wear so naturally has to be nothing more than a facade, a mask of lies to make people like you. You look sincere enough, but you're obviously just a brilliant actress. A wizard at hiding your true expressions. Dumb when it comes to school, but secretly a mastermind of manipulation.

"Wait!" You blurt, eyes wide. "We have to go back!"

"Oh?" Satan arches an eyebrow, not particularly bothered by the idea. "Why?"

"I left my kneepads in the gym!"

Satan blinks.

Okay, he takes all of that back.

There's no way you're a mastermind of anything. Except volleyball, maybe. And if your head is this empty, it's a wonder you're even able to be that good at that.

"The kneepads," Satan begins, impossibly slow, hoping that you'll come to the realization on your own. "That you left in the gym," He continues, eyes round in disbelief as you nod your head ardently. "That are currently on your knees?"

You blink. Once, then twice. And then you slowly drop your head to your knees, eyes widening as an impossibly quiet "oh" escapes your lips.

Satan snorts.

"I thought you had a good memory for the things you cared about," The blonde says, arching an amused eyebrow your way. It's probably the first time tonight where he's seeing you genuinely embarrassed and not just recklessly optimistic.

"I—I do!" You defend indignantly, hiking your duffel bag higher around your shoulder as you awkwardly try to find your balance under the weight of it. "It's just that I normally put my knee pads around my ankles after a game, and so I assumed that I left them behind when I couldn't feel them there!"

A pretty decent excuse, the blonde knows. Heck, even he was a bit thrown off today when Barbatos approached him and told him that this was the day he would get to meet his tutoring student. But Satan finds mirth in your momentary fluster, so he doesn't let you know any of this, his grin only widening as he nods disbelievingly.

"I'm sure," He says with enough dismissal in his voice for you to know he doesn't believe you.

"Hey!" You protest. "I'm being serious! I'm not _stupid!"_

"A debatable subject, based on recent evidence."

Satan can't even get another step in before you've slung your duffel bag off of your shoulder, whacking Satan straight in the chest with it. The blonde stumbles at the force of it, abruptly realizing that the muscles on your arms are no joke, but he regains his balance soon enough.

"Is that seriously any way to be treating your new tutor?" His words are serious but his voice betrays him, amusement sliding in when he was hoping to tease you some more.

"If anything, _you_ should be treating me better," You argue back. "Aren't you, like, supposed to be getting me hyped about learning or something?"

"All in due time," He responds with a sigh, heart deflating at the prospect. Again, you seem like a nice enough person. But Satan's intuition is screaming at him that you're going to be a nightmare of a student—no matter how fun you seem to be.

"Is this our building?" He asks, trying to read the sign in front of the dorm in the darkness, to no avail.

"Yup. Haven't you been here before?

"Only once," Satan mumbles as he holds the door open for you. "Barbatos had me move in today. He probably wanted me here to keep you in line."

You roll your eyes at that, not dignifying Satan with a response as you pass the sign-in log to him, waiting so that the two of you can walk to the elevator together.

"What's your room number?" He asks, only when he's trying to figure out which button to press.

"665. Top floor."

 _Ah,_ Satan thinks, amusement flooding his veins as he presses the neon six. So not only are the two of you in the same building, but your rooms are literally across from each other.

_Definitely something Barbatos would do._

Satan feels like he should be annoyed at that, because it certainly wasn't a part of the bargain he struck with Lucifer and it should have been mentioned to him at the start, back when he first agreed to become a tutor.

And yet, he can't bring himself to give in to the familiar simmer of wrath, not with you standing so close next to him, wiggling your eyebrows and making silly expressions in the mirror that Satan can only pretend he isn't enjoying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word count: 3.7k
> 
> Notes: okay what up so this series is going to be different from everything i’ve done before because (1) there won’t be an update schedule, ima try my best to update at least weekly (maybe even twice per week :3) but college will definitely be taking priority (2) i usually try to avoid referring to gender, even in my fics where mc isn’t gender neutral, but because this is an mc on a girl’s vball team, her gender will be referenced a lot (3) this isn’t going to be plot driven like most of my works, it’s honestly just an indulgent slow burn fic and that is the driver (4) yeah you might have already figured this one out but the mc in this fic has personality. she is confident, spirited, and full of life in every way - and although most of my reader inserts normally have some semblance of a personality, i’m rlly not holding back with this one. i totally totally understand if any of these reasons make you not want to read this story. if that’s the case, i thank you for even giving it a chance - but if you’re down to stick around, buckle up bc this series is going to be a LONG ride and i can’t wait to go on it with you all <3
> 
> Comment & Leave Kudos
> 
> Thank you for reading <3
> 
> I do not own the rights to Obey Me! or any of the characters within it.


	2. Chapter 2

Satan expected you to be bad.

But even he couldn't have predicted that you would be _this_ bad.

"You don't know what logarithms are," He repeats, each word coming out slower than the last. He's silently hoping that if he says the words slow enough, then maybe they'll be wrong. Maybe his life won't instantly be ten times more difficult. Maybe he won't need to spend hours teaching you math you should have learned _last_ year.

"Nope!" You respond with a bright smile, utterly unaware of the stress you're adding onto the blonde's shoulders. "My teacher was also saying a bunch of stuff about negative exponents that I didn't understand, so there's that."

Satan doesn't bother hiding how his forehead drops against the desk, a resounding _thump_ echoing throughout your small dorm room.

"Okay," He mumbles, standing up. "I'm going to go to my room to get a different textbook for you. You are _not_ going to leave, is that clear?" He frowns at you, making his stare intense enough to make a normal person flinch, though you don't even seem to realize he's glaring. "Is that _clear?"_ He repeats, practically spitting that last word.

"Yeah, yeah," You mumble, spinning a pencil between your fingers. "No leaving. Wait till you're back. I got it, captain."

Satan is wholly reluctant to leave you alone, too familiar with your procrastinating instincts to trust that you'll be able to keep your fingers off the volleyball that's sitting neglected in the corner of your bed (and he knows from past experience that as soon as you get your fingers on that ball, he won't be able to get your attention back for half an hour), but he needs to get this algebra book, so he departs from your room with a final warning glare, eyes narrowed.

 _I'll just have to make this quick,_ he decides as he swiftly enters his own quarters.

Finding the book he's looking for is easy enough, though it takes him a moment to dislodge the thick _ALGEBRA II_ textbook from underneath all his other workbooks. After all, he hasn't touched this in...how long has it been? Two years? Three?

A faint smile ghosts over Satan's lips as he opens the textbook and sees his name scribbled on the inside next to a threatening message to return it, should anyone find it.

 _Four years,_ he realizes when his eyes skirt over the date. _Well, maybe it'll be fun to review this material._

He walks back into your room with a lighter heart, book tucked comfortably underneath the crook of his elbow. For a moment, he thinks that this might not be so bad. The material is so simple that you'll have no choice but to grasp it quickly; he just needs to put the book in front of you, and... _oh._

You're no longer in your room.

"Why am I not surprised?" Satan mumbles to himself, throwing the book onto your bed as he storms down the hall.

Where could you have gone in the two minutes Satan left you alone? Across campus, to one of the student gyms? That's where you've usually gone off to, in all the other instances where you've mysteriously disappeared. Or maybe you went to the athletic center, the one right next to this dorm. That would make more sense, Satan thinks. He'll check both. And if you're not in either of those places, then he'll call one of your friends, and—

"Oh hey, Satan!"

The boy whips his head around at the sound of your voice with the viciousness of a wild animal.

"Say, can you help me with this vending machine? I keep trying to put my quarter in, but it won't—hey! Let go!" You struggle in Satan's grip but you don't fight it, letting the blonde drag you back to your room. "I just wanted some gummy worms!"

"You can have your gummy worms _after_ you understand logarithmic functions," Satan tells you, retrieving the book from your bed and opening it in front of you, simultaneously promising himself to never leave you alone during a tutoring session again.

"But—"

"No buts." Satan takes his seat across from you, crossing his arms as he watches you frown over the material in front of you. "Start reading. From the top of the page. Out loud."

You flash him a sour look, and for a moment, Satan thinks you're about to stick your tongue out at him in pettiness. Miraculously, though, you manage to retain some semblance of maturity as you sigh and rest your head on your hand, mumbling the words of the page aloud with zero enthusiasm in your voice.

Only once you've begun reading off the examples does Satan allow himself a moment to relax.

And really, he needs it.

The boy swears you're like a preschooler. So much energy for someone who does nothing but run around and play sports all day long.

It's only been one week of tutoring, at this point. But it's been one week of pure hell for Satan. Trying to teach you, or at least trying to get you to sit still long enough to be taught, is like trying to tame the Devil. It's impossible. Your mind is always a thousand places at once, always aching to do something that _doesn't_ involve sitting at a desk for hours on end while staring at a piece of paper.

"Satan," You drawl, speaking up as soon as you're halfway through your first problem on the sheet of exercises. "I'm _bored."_

"We can take a break when you're done," The boy mutters, rapping his pencil against the problem. "Keep working for now."

He leans back in his chair and watches you work, making sure that you're doing each step properly as you glance back to the example problem every few seconds. When you glance up at him to check if you got the right answer, he nods his head stiffly, moving his pencil to the second problem.

You groan.

Satan's lips quirk upward at that, the boy almost amused to see you so reluctant to do more than a single problem.

He can find rare moments of peace like this, when you actually sit down and agree to do work. Stubborn, you may be, but Satan has found that you're a pretty efficient worker when you're forced to study. Barbatos might even have been right in his earlier assessment that Satan has his work cut out for him—after all, you're a quick learner. You grasp concepts easily, only ever having a few questions every time Satan explains. He can tell that you're an intelligent person, even if your grades indicate otherwise.

Hell, you'd probably be a genuinely good student if you weren't such a procrastinator.

"Satan," You whine, pushing your textbook away. "Satan, I can't. My brain is an egg and you have officially fried it. If you make me do one more problem, I'm gonna explode."

Satan arches an eyebrow. "You'll explode or your brain will?"

"Both!" You push the textbook further away and stretch your arms out across the table, resting your forehead against the mahogany wood. "Come on, can we take a break?" You look up at him with innocent eyes. "Please? I'll get back to work as soon as we're done, I promise."

"You tried this yesterday," Satan mumbles, pushing your paper back to you. You've only done a single page, barely even dipping your toe into the waters of the chapter, but you're already acting like Satan's the cruelest person in the world.

"I mean it this time! For real! Come on, aren't you bored too? We can grab some coffee and then head straight back here. I won't try to run away from you this time, I promise!"

It isn't hard to tell that you're being sincere. In the small amount of time that Satan's known you, he's found that you wear your heart on your sleeve. The few times he's managed to fall for your little tricks have been his fault for not paying attention.

He stares at you for a moment, trying to decide whether to let this slide or not. And ultimately, his sympathetic side wins him over. (It's not the pleading look you're shooting him that does the trick, he swears it's not.)

"Fine," He mumbles begrudgingly, and you've jumped out of your chair within seconds, a yelp of joy escaping your lips as you begin tugging his arm.

Satan is almost impressed at the speed with which you yank him out of the room and barrel down the stairs (The elevator was taking too long, you said. Eight seconds is too long, apparently.). Almost impressed, but not actually impressed, because the whole time, your fingers are latched around his elbow in a death grip and the duffel bag in your other hand keeps bumping Satan on the shoulder and—

 _What the fuck,_ he thinks, a wave of irritation washing through his body when he realizes that he didn't notice this earlier.

"Please explain to me why you thought it was necessary to bring your volleyball bag on our coffee run."

He plants his feet firmly on the ground, fighting against your insistent tugs as you try to get him to keep walking.

"It was—it was just in _case_ something happened—I mean—"

"We're getting coffee. That's it. We're getting coffee and then we're going back to your dorm so we can get you at least _somewhere_ close to where you need to be in math. Nothing else. What could _possibly_ happen that would require your volleyball bag?"

You stare at him for a moment, mouth slightly agape and a mild flush on your cheeks.

"It's—it's just—" You stare at the ground instead of meeting Satan's eyes. "It's just that if a bunch of aliens invade the earth and say that the only way to get them to go back is to play a match of volleyball, I need to be ready!"

Satan blinks.

"Please don't tell me you're serious," He whispers, quietly praying that the sincerity in your voice was fake.

"No, it's true! Carrying my volleyball bag around is the only way to ensure that—"

Satan abruptly zones you out, withdrawing to the confines of his mind where things are normaland where people _don't_ randomly predict alien invasions.

_Please, dear God, give this girl some common sense._

He begins shuffling his feet warily next to you as you continue to tug him outside the building, just barely paying attention to the enthusiastic hand gestures you make as you explain why it makes most sense that, in the event of an alien invasion, volleyball would be the defining factor to make or break humanity's freedom.

He doesn't bother contesting your claim.

It has nothing to do with the fact that he's enjoying listening to your trail of thought as you extend logical reasoning to defend your argument beyond any justifiable means of logos—absolutely nothing.

* * *

"You can't be serious."

"I am."

"We walked for half an hour to this coffeehouse because you refused to go anywhere else, and now you're going to order _chocolate milk?"_

"It's a healthy drink for athletes!" You defend, holding the drink close to your body as if to protect its nonexistent ears from Satan's words. "And I have an extended practice in the evening! I need all the extra energy I can get!"

Satan does his best not to roll his eyes as he accepts the cup of tea from the woman running the coffeehouse, not bothering to comment on the fact that you didn't ask for yours to-go. He should have expected that you would want to waste as much time as possible, should have ordered and paid _for_ you to make sure you couldn't have pulled something like this.

 _Ah well,_ the blonde thinks as you pull him deeper into the small shop, plopping yourself down on a bean bag as you clutch the yellow mug close against your body. _That's what next time is for._

"Come on," You mumble, nudging Satan's shoulder. "Sit down!"

And so Satan ends up seated across from you atop a bean bag on the floor, legs awkwardly splayed out in front of him as he tries not to think about all the drinks that must have been spilled here before.

 _Lovely,_ he thinks, squirming uncomfortably. _Absolutely lovely._

It's easy for the two of you to descend into silence, you devoted to consuming your drink as slow as is humanly possible while Satan tries to zone everything out, absentmindedly listening to the record that's playing in the background. The blonde can't help but think that it's almost like a tutoring session, during one of those rare and brief moments where you actually agree to do work while Satan merely supervises.

The only difference is that right now, Satan isn't the only one who's found peace in the moment, and even you have a soft smile on your face as you close your eyes and savor the taste of your drink.

It's a perfect picture of comfort.

Truly photo-worthy.

Satan leans his head back on the bean bag, surveying everything laid out before him.

The afternoon sun doesn't shine as proudly inside this cafe, its light filtering in only where windows allow it, a strong ray of sunlight landing on both your legs where they're strewn on the floor next to each other. Then there's the neverending sound of shrieking and laughing from outside—the kind of sound that never fully goes away on a campus like this, where students run around till the midnight curfew and raise hell the whole time. But Satan swears that it feels like time has stopped to give him this moment of peace. And indeed, it seems that even you have noticed the sheer tranquility of the moment as well, taking a pause from your usual energetic bubbliness to throw the boy a gentle smile, one which almost makes him forget how nightmarish you've been making his life over this past one week.

Alas, all good moments come to an end.

And this one ends with the entrance of a familiar face, one that Satan was _not_ hoping to see.

"Oh my," The familiar voice drawls, and Satan doesn't even need to turn around to know about the smirk plastered on his friend's face. "What do we have here?"

"Solomon!" You exclaim, eyes lighting up as you excitedly gesture for him to come over.

You clearly don't see the way Satan's face falls as the white-haired boy approaches _._

_And so the moment is lost._

"What do you want?" Satan groans, quietly mourning the loss of the peace he had been basking in earlier. "And why are you here?"

"I was just popping in to get some coffee," Solomon says, grinning as he shoves Satan over to make room on the bean bag, slinging an arm over his friend's shoulder. "But I didn't know Satan was having his first _date_ in here."

Satan smacks his friend on the forehead.

"What?" The boy whines. "Oh, were you trying to keep it a secret that you've never actually had a girlfrie—"

Satan punches his friend in the stomach, flashing you a smile that barely conceals his irritation as he tries his best to silence his so-called-friend while you openly laugh at the two of them.

Satan groans inwardly, cursing his pale complexion as he tries to hide the blush that's doubtlessly risen to his cheeks.

It's not that he's embarrassed over the fact that he's never had a girlfriend. Quite the contrary, actually. Satan has always had more than enough options, being one of the smartest and most charismatic people on campus while simultaneously being one of the richest. But the blonde has had to deal with Solomon and his god-awful matchmaking attempts from the very first day they had the misfortune of sitting next to each other during freshman orientation, so Satan merely wanted to keep the two of you separated to prevent his obnoxious friend from getting any suspicious ideas.

From the way Solomon's is wiggling his eyebrows at you, though, it's obvious that the two of you already know each other.

 _Of course,_ the blonde thinks. _All the athletes at this godforsaken school know each other._

He curses his luck.

"I'm gonna leave the two of you to catch up," You tell Satan, still laughing. The blonde scowls at you, though he's not sure if it's because he's embarrassed from Solomon's words or angry that you're leaving him with the Devil personified. "I'll be outside the coffeehouse when you wanna head back, Satan."

The blonde hangs his head in shame until you're gone.

"I fucking hate you," He mumbles, wishing that he hadn't drunk all of his tea so he could splash some of it on the boy next to him.

"I know you love me deep down inside," Solomon mumbles, arching his neck around to stare at you through the window. "But let's talk about _her."_

Satan sighs.

"There's nothing to talk about, Solomon. Lucifer said that if I wanted to get out of the House of Lamentation and become a boarding student, I'd have to agree to Barbatos's rules, and Barbatos's only rule for me getting to switch in the middle of the year was that I'd have to tutor his star athlete so she doesn't flunk out. There's nothing more to it."

"Okay, two things," Solomon says. "One, _I'm_ the school's star athlete—"

"Yeah, right."

"I'm literally captain for _three_ sports. Your future girlfriend over there is, what? Volleyball captain? And that's it? Because she doesn't do any other sports and she isn't the school's star athlete?"

Satan snorts in response, knowing that every second of resistance is further bruising Solomon's ego.

"And _two,_ that girl over is the one, Satan. I can feel it, this time, and—"

"You also 'felt it' with the past six people you tried to set me up with. And you were wrong every single time, Solomon."

"Okay," Solomon interrupts, with the same confidence he gets every time he's a little too excited about something for his (or Satan's, usually) good. "I only know what I do right now through _rumors_ because my supposed 'friend' refuses to tell me anything about his private life, but you guys _are_ both staying in the only co-ed dorm on campus, right?"

"...Right."

Solomon grins.

"And let me guess, Barbatos put you guys on the same floor, didn't he?"

"...He might have."

"Wait, wait, seriously? Hold up, are your rooms next to each other? Across from each other?"

Satan groans, standing up and dumping his empty cup of tea in the garbage, trying to ignore Solomon until the white-haired boy stands in his way.

"I'm right," He mumbles, grinning. "I'm right, aren't I? Satan, you know what this means. You're finally going to get a girlfriend! And not just _any_ girlfriend, but a girlfriend that I might have wanted for myself if she wasn't so perfect for you!"

Satan abruptly regrets not having pursued an athletic career as he pushes against Solomon to no avail, the slightly taller male holding him back with the strength that only a soccer player turned basketballer turned wrestler can contain.

"C'mon, look at her," Solomon urges, gesturing at your figure through the window. It seems that you've grown bored of just waiting for Satan, and you've finally taken a volleyball out from your bag, and you're setting it to yourself over and over again. "Don't you feel anything? Like some tightening in your heart or butterflies in your stomach?"

Satan squints, watching your face descend into momentary panic when you set the ball too high, and it bounces off the roof above you, the ball barreling downward faster than you're ready for before bouncing off your forehead.

"No," The blonde deadpans, being completely honest as he watches your figure. "I'm not into her."

Satan ignores Solomon's immediate rant about how he must be lying to himself, denying his heart of his true sentiments, and a load of other crap that's pure speculation. The fact is, Satan doesn't care what Solomon's opinions are on the field of romance. Satan thinks that a boy whose end-of-the-year chemistry project was to create a love potion has no say whatsoever in anyone's love life, certainly not Satan's.

"Solomon," Satan sighs, patting his friend on the shoulder. "I'm leaving. Fuck off."

"You say that, but I'm the one you'll be coming to when you're hopelessly in love with her."

The sheer confidence with which Solomon says that would make a stupider person believe the words to be true, but Satan knows better. He pushes past his friend with a roll of the eyes, readily heading out to grab you and pull you back to the dorm so he can get at least a _little_ tutoring in before you weasel your way out for volleyball practice, but then an interesting idea runs through Satan's mind.

After all, wasn't Solomon failing biology nearly all of their freshman year until one of his tutors found a way to make the material stick?

"Solomon?" Satan turns to his friend, trying to see whether the boy is still prancing through daydreams of Satan's imaginary love life or whether he's finally serious.

"What's up, man?" The athlete flashes his usual shady grin, overly confident and overly suspicious.

Satan pauses, trying to figure out if it's even worth asking. But in the end, his desire to make progress on his tutoring with you wins against his reluctance to ask Solomon for help, so he finally mumbles out his question.

"Remember how all your tutors quit because you never paid attention to them?"

"Yeah. Good times!"

"How'd the last one finally teach you?"

Satan holds his breath as he waits for an answer, already prepared for Solomon to come out and say something utterly unhelpful. Or utterly vague. Utterly useless, even. All three would be in line with his character and the way he's been behaving today.

"Ah, little Satan needs my help tutoring his future girlfriend, does he?"

Satan doesn't bother correcting him.

"That's alright. I'll help you out this time." Solomon grins. "Teach her while she plays volleyball. Tell her that for every question she gets right, you'll toss her a ball or something. Stuff like that works like a charm on us athletes, since even the best of us need help to get better."

 _Interesting,_ Satan thinks, noting that the idea isn't half-bad. It's certainly better than sitting you down at a table and letting you ignore half of what he says, only to pull him away on a time-consuming coffee run.

"Thanks," He mumbles out, finally remembering why he still calls Solomon a friend.

"Anytime."

Satan doesn't look back, then, as he pushes outside of the coffeehouse. Doesn't bother glancing at the shit-eating grin he knows Solomon is wearing as the white-haired boy ogles the sight of you together and silently makes hearts around the image. Doesn't even realize that the activity suggested by him was just another one of his matchmaking attempts, an effort to put the two of you together.

No, Satan just pushes outside and leaves his friend behind, ignoring the way Solomon stares at the two of you like a kid ogles the display window in a candy shop, the blonde merely turning to you and gesturing that it's time to go.

You hide the volleyball behind your back almost immediately, flashing Satan an apologetic grin as if caught doing something you weren't supposed to be doing, but Satan pays it no mind.

"Grab your bag so we can go," He mumbles, silently hoping that Solomon's advice will work out. "But don't put the volleyball away."

You don't question his decision, clearly afraid that you'll end up making Satan change his mind on why he wants you to keep the volleyball out. But the curiosity on your face, coupled with the not-so-subtle glances you keep shooting Satan, finally compels him to speak up. To give you a clue about what his conversation with Solomon led to. To give you the barest hint about what is about to become your most favorite activity in the world.

"We're trying something new today." ****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word count: 4.1k
> 
> Notes: i didn't really know where to put mc in for math so i just set her back one year behind the traditional standard in the us >.> studies won't rlly come up a lot though so it shouldn't make an impact in the long run :) btw!! wasn't much satan-mc interaction in this chapter bc we're still getting the wheels rolling on this story, but their relationship finally begins in chapter 3 (much to solomon's pleasure...and yes, i couldn't figure out any way to include the shady sorcerer in this nonmagical au other than to make him the shady matchmaker. i have 0 regrets ;))
> 
> Comment & Leave Kudos
> 
> Thank you for reading <3
> 
> I do not own the rights to Obey Me! or any of the characters within it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warning: one (1) spoiler for romeo and juliet in this chapter

A small part of you scoffed when Satan told you he'd be tutoring you while helping out with your volleyball practice. He may be the smartest guy you know, but the idea honestly seemed stupid. How did he expect you to pay attention to the ball in front of you and the words coming out of his mouth at the same time? It didn't seem possible; it didn't seem practical. You went along with the plan because he promised he'd help out with your practice, not because he claimed it would help his tutoring.

You should have known better than to doubt someone like Satan, though.

This may just be the best tutoring session you've had yet.

"It's important to note that the primary reason why Americans didn't want to join WWII was that the Nye Committee spread lies about America's purpose for entering the first world war," Satan explains, continuing to explain the chapter of history you're on while helping you stretch. "The Nye Committee essentially stated that America's purpose was purely economic, and that arms manufacturers encouraged the government to enter the war so they could increase production and raise profit."

You nod your head, grunting lightly as Satan coaxes your body lower while you continue to reach for your left leg. He's surprisingly good at this; not just the helping you stretch part, but also the whole summarizing the relevant parts of the chapter while cutting out the unnecessary information part.

You almost feel bad for having ignored him this past week during all his normal tutoring sessions.

"Do you remember the senator for which the Nye Committee was named?" Satan asks you when you finally pull out of your stretch and begin reaching for the other toe. "We discussed this earlier."

You frown. You certainly do remember Satan telling you _something_ about the Nye Committee, but you can't remember what.

"Um…"

There's an exasperated sigh from above you as Satan's palm stops pushing your back lower and he groans to himself, but the sound seems to stir your memory. You abruptly recall him making that _same_ groan of frustration just half an hour earlier when you first arrived at the student gym, when you interrupted his explanation of the Nye Committee to set a volleyball straight in the air to him, only for it to bounce perfectly off his head.

"Gerald Nye!" You exclaim, withdrawing from your stretch to beam at Satan. "You said it was named after Gerald Nye!"

There's a flicker of hope on his face, a moment of silent pride because this is perhaps the first time you've successfully answered one of his questions without requiring hints.

"Good job," He blurts, surprised. He clears his throat immediately after, quickly continuing his explanation of the global state of affairs during WWII, but you can hear the smile in his voice.

A peaceful grin crosses your face as you continue to stretch.

There's something therapeutic about having someone talk to you while you go through your preparatory routine. Having your body occupied with warmups actually makes it easier to focus on Satan's words. This is definitely something you could get used to, a form of tutoring you'd happily partake in because it's genuinely enjoyable.

"Alright," You interrupt once you've finished stretching your legs and are now just casually flexing your arms. "Let's move on."

"To what?" Satan glances at the textbook that's still open. There are a couple pages left in the history chapter, and you need to get through this material by tomorrow for your reading check quiz. "Can't you stretch a little longer so I can finish explaining the chapter?"

"I guess," You shrug. "But I have to do a warmup jog before I can actually get started anyway, so why don't you just keep explaining stuff while I run?"

Satan shoots you an unconvinced look.

"You expect me," He mumbles under his breath, shaking his head. "To believe that you'll actually pay attention if I read to you while you're running laps?"

"Eight of them!" You exclaim, nodding eagerly.

"I don't think that's—"

"Okay, I'm starting!"

You don't bother waiting for Satan's approval before jogging over to the red line that borders the student gym. You know he could easily catch up to you if he wants. All your efforts as an athlete have failed to make you a particularly impressive runner, and you're definitely among the slower side of your team. Of course, that's never set you back, given that you'll readily dive for a ball without a second thought if you know you're too slow to sprint there on time, but it still surprises you when Satan doesn't tackle you as soon as you begin to run your laps.

You understand why in a moment.

"Woah, you really are slow."

Your eyes widen when you see Satan jogging next to you, fists lose at his side. Somehow, he's maintaining your pace effortlessly, not a hair out of place as he moves his legs in what looks more like a brisk walk than your stuttering jog.

"How are you—" You have to cut yourself off to breathe, a bubble of frustration rising when you see how easily Satan jogs at your side.

"Alright. Back to our lesson."

The blonde barely takes any time to breathe as he continues to educate you on how Nazi Germany channeled success within athleticism into socialism in an attempt to make their regime seem more prosperous, easily continuing on to explain how the development of the radio only further strengthened Hitler's influence. He maintains the same tone he would have if he were merely walking, utterly undisturbed by the fact that you're jogging and now _struggling_ to keep up with his pace.

"Slow down," You gasp at him when you're on your fifth lap. Satan had unintentionally picked up the pace to turn it into what looks like a real jog for him (which coincidentally ended up being your sprint), and you're not sure what's suffering more: your heart rate or your ego.

"Oh, my bad."

It's almost shameful when Satan drops his pace to yours, abruptly making your jog seem like a snail's pace as compared to the rapid speed he'd been pushing earlier. At the back of your mind, you consider trying to pick up the pace, trying to sprint faster, but the memory of Satan's untroubled lecturing even as you were struggling to keep up with him tells you that he's the last person you want to challenge.

Eight laps cannot be over soon enough.

You all but collapse on the ground when you finish, nowhere near as excited as Satan about the fact that he managed to time it so that his explanation of the chapter ended the moment you completed the last lap. All you can think about is the awful fact that your _nerd_ of a tutor who quit track three years ago is still somehow better at running than you.

And yes, it hurts your ego substantially.

"How are you so _fast?"_ You whine as you try to regain your breath on the floor, trying not to look up at Satan because you already know that he'll look nowhere near as disheveled as you.

"Born that way," He says with a grin, walking over to your duffel bag to grab your water bottle. He takes a sip before he gives it to you. "Sorry. All that talking made my throat a little dry."

You can't help but pout at that. Your mile-run was so slow that not only was Satan able to finish a whole history lesson during it—but it wasn't even the physical exertion that wore him out. It was the _talking._

"Hey, don't feel bad." He frowns when he sees your pouty expression. "You're still miles better at volleyball than I could ever hope to be. No, really. _Miles."_

The thought does little to console you.

"Satan. Please," You begin, taking a long sip of your water and pulling yourself to your feet only so that you can clasp Satan's hands in yours. "Teach me your ways. I want to be as fast as you."

"Let go," Satan blurts as he pulls his hands free of yours, his nose scrunching up. "You have sweaty palms."

"Satan!"

The boy laughs, a rich sound that fills the empty gym. His grin is broad when he faces you next, pride decorating his features. "You're not _that_ slow, I promise. I'm just…"

 _Ridiculously fast,_ you think to yourself.

"A little better at running than the average person. That's all. It's stupid for you to compare yourself to me when it comes to running, just like it's stupid for me to compare myself to you when it comes to volleyball."

"It's not stupid," You grumble to yourself, taking another sip of water before tossing the bottle back into your volleyball bag. "You still haven't told me why you quit track."

"And I'll never tell you unless you start getting better grades," Satan interrupts, briskly transitioning into his tutor-mode.

You open your mouth to retort, to shoot him a mischievous comment and maybe pull him back into a longwinded conversation, but the moment the blonde walks over to your volleyball cart, it's just _head-empty_ , and all you can think about is practice.

There's a brief transition period where Satan specifically asks you what you want him to do, because "this is supposed to help you in both your tutoring _and_ volleyball," so he "may as well do exercises that are actually helpful." It's how you finally manage to worm him into a downball exercise, which wounds up being pretty effective because Satan seems to be sufficiently muscular such that every ball flies to the ground with impressive force but also sufficiently terrible at volleyball such that every ball is several feet away from you, making for an excellent simulation of a real game environment.

There are, of course, the questions that Satan insists on asking you in between every downball. He's moved on to explaining physics to you, now, and you don't bother asking him how he somehow has all this information memorized, merely leaving the explanations to him because they do sound an awful lot like what your teacher has been explaining in the past week.

But somehow, the practice remains enjoyable.

Every now and then, the two of you need to take a pause so you can collect the balls from the ground. Satan only brought one cart over, so the two of you do have limited resources; but the overall experience is surprisingly smooth. So smooth, in fact, that the two of you end up moving on from physics to English, English to computer science, computer science to art appreciation, and you're about to tackle another subject when the doors to the gym abruptly open and you see the familiar faces of your teammates.

"It's time for practice!" You exclaim eagerly, your face lighting up. "Satan, I gotta go!"

The blonde raises an eyebrow. "Are you sure? You've already practiced with me for nearly two hours."

"That wasn't practicing, Satan. That was _studying._ You made us stop for so many questions that I could barely even get my heart rate up."

The blonde shoots you another concerned look, still hesitant. "Maybe you should sit this practice out. Or at least take a short break. I don't want to be the reason for you getting injured."

"Aw, what a sweet sentiment~" You coo, slinging an arm over Satan's shoulder. Your grin is bright as you tug him toward the bleachers, towards where you dumped your volleyball bag. "I'll be fine, don't worry. I'll have to practice much longer when our actual training season starts up, anyway."

You can see Satan frown at that, his lips curving downward as he doubtlessly wonders what you mean by the 'actual training season,' but he doesn't press the issue, merely nodding his head.

"Is there anything I can do to help out?" You see his fingers flex at his side, the boy eager to do _something_ to appease his guilt for keeping you so long but clearly not sure what.

"I usually refill my water bottle before practice, so…"

"Let me," Satan interrupts firmly, taking the metal bottle from your hands. "And sit down, at least until I return. Try to rest, even if it's only for a little."

A soft smile spreads across your face at that. Satan might have been a Varsity runner in his freshman year, but it's clear that he's forgotten just how hard athletes at your school train. Still, it's endearing how concerned he is. You nod your head at him with a smile as you take a seat atop the bleachers. The action seems to pacify him, and he quickly jogs off in the direction of the water cart, easily slipping into a pace that would surpass all of your sprints.

"So~" A voice calls from next to you, oh so mischievous and oh so familiar. "What were you doing with our student president?"

"He's my tutor!" You respond brightly, smiling at your co-captain as she takes a seat next to you. "He brought me here because apparently, I wasn't responding very well to his normal teaching attempts, so he decided to throw volleyball into the mix. It's actually working out pretty well!"

"Oh?" The setter chuckles. "No surprise there. I can't really imagine you sitting at a desk and actually learning anything."

"Hey!" You smack the girl in mock offense, clicking your tongue in annoyance as you roll your eyes. "I'm not _that_ bad. My grades have been improving, thanks to him."

"Is that so?" The girl grins, her eyes darting down as she doubtlessly checks Satan out. "And have they been improving because he's a good teacher or because he makes for such great eye candy?"

You snort. It's not like you haven't recognized by now that Satan is one of the most attractive people in your grade, but you find it hard to pay attention to that when there's so much else going on in his personality.

"He's a good teacher. Nothing else."

"So you don't want to maybe date him one day?"

"No," You deadpan. "I don't want to maybe date him one day."

The setter by your side deflates, leaning against you with an angry mumble about how _unfair_ it is that she never gets to tease you about liking any boys. "So frustrating," She mumbles, doubtlessly in reference to you. "He's so _cute,_ too. And smart. And popular. And rich. And _perfect_ boyfriend material, from what I've heard."

"He's just a friend."

Satan has reached the athletic cart on the other side of the gym, already in front of the giant water cooler. He catches your gaze, shooting you his usual, broad smile as he continues to fill your water bottle.

 _Keep resting,_ he mouths to you, gesturing for you to remain seated when you attempt to stand.

"A good friend," You correct yourself.

* * *

Satan is a firm believer that there is beauty in simplicity. It is how he has approached life and it is how he has approached tutoring you: finding the simplest route and executing it with maximum precision.

In the present moment, this has translated to Satan's agreement with you: one correct answer, one toss. One piece of evidence that you're actually improving in your classes, and one chance to improve on your volleyball hitting form. One nod at academia, one nod toward athletics.

It's an ingenious agreement, simple as it is beautiful.

The execution, though, is anything but.

"You have to toss _higher,"_ You hiss, catching your ball in midair and throwing it back to Satan before your feet have even touched the ground. "The ball needs to reach my _hand_ at the peak of my jump, not my _head."_

Satan scowls at your admonishment, grumbling under his breath before tossing the ball to you again, lifting it higher.

It's been precisely four days of this volleyball-meets-tutoring agreement, and Satan's hands have already begun to cramp from the hundreds of sets per day he's been tossing you. The manicure Asmo gave him right before he left the House of Lamentation has begun to chip off, the bright green nail polish now cracked and uneven. The blonde even has a bruise on the side of his torso from getting hit by one of your jump serves two days prior, just another battle wound in his war to make you pass your classes.

The only positive to this whole arrangement is that you really are beginning to improve.

"What were Caesar's last words?" Satan asks, consciously picking a straightforward question that he expects you won't remember the answer to.

 _"Et tu, Brute?"_ You smirk, quietly beaming because you know you're right.

Satan suppresses a sigh, ignoring the ache in his palms as he tosses the ball into the air and sets it to you, making sure the ball arches unnecessarily high because you jump like a goddamn frog.

"That's better!" You cheer as your palm slams into the ball with inhuman force, hitting it to the ground and letting the sound echo through the gymnasium.

Satan shudders, thinking about the bruise he's sporting on his torso from your serve the other day. He doesn't want to imagine how much pain he'd be in if he'd been on the receiving end of that spike you just delivered.

"Again," You demand, already backing up in anticipation for another serve as Satan brainstorms up another question to ask you for your cumulative Shakespeare test tomorrow.

The truth is that he thinks you're ready. A statement he never would have imagined one week ago, but it has become reality. By combining volleyball practice and academics into one, it's as if your brain is unable to differentiate between the two and you simply _have_ to use your full energy on both, resulting in an impressive amount of progress.

"Why is Romeo banished?"

"For killing...Mercutio? No, wait! For killing Tybalt!" A triumphant grin spreads across your face, proud and happy.

Satan tosses you another ball.

He's genuinely impressed with the level of focus you've been able to retain during these past few tutoring sessions. When you first asked him to read you the plays from your literature class, the boy was skeptical. Particularly so because you wanted him to read to you as you cycled through your conditioning exercises, and Satan doubted that reciting Hamlet's infamous monologues while you did burpees would help you learn. The blonde was pleased to discover that he was wrong, though. By the end of the day, he had found that while there's nothing you seem to loathe more than properly sitting down to read a book, you actually enjoy being read to. It's helped him teach you material in nearly every subject.

"Explain why Cordelia was disowned."

"Cordelia...Cordelia...who?"

Ah, there it is.

Whenever Satan grows a little too proud of you, you always seem to dash his hopes.

"Cordelia," The blonde mutters, already sensing what your next words are going to be. "From _King Lear,_ the book you were supposed to finish on your own yesterday."

"Oh, that." You hide your hands behind your back, smiling sheepishly. "I, um, didn't."

Satan sighs, letting the volleyball in his hands bounce back into the cart he picked it up from.

"Wait!" You cry, trying to stop him. "Just a few more tosses, please! I've been trying out this new hitting technique where I try to hit the ball straight down instead of with an angle and I'm _finally_ getting good at—"

"Too bad," Satan blurts, crossing his arms and interrupting you. "If you wanted me to help you practice, you should have done the reading I assigned you. That was our agreement."

"But it was a _whole_ play! How was I supposed to read all that in one night? That's just cruel!"

"What's cruel is you _choosing_ to ignore that play for so long. You had weeks to read _King Lear._ You chose to make it difficult for yourself."

Satan grabs the volleyball out of your hands and drops it in the wheeled cart, already moving to the other side of the net to pick up the remaining balls from your hits.

"But _Satan!"_ You continue to whine, still trying to tug him backward. For the first time, though, he manages to fight your grip, internally thanking his six brothers for having taught him the art of pushing people away.

He doesn't pay you much mind when you groan and flop backwards onto the gym floor, spreading your limbs out like a starfish. The sight only makes the edges of his lips quirk up in amusement because, really, as nice as it is to see you energized and full of life, it's still nicer to be reminded that even you have your physical limits.

"Come on," He mumbles, nudging your shoe with his own. "Let's go."

"Don't wanna," You mumble in response, closing your eyes. "Tired."

You emphasize the sentiment with a yawn, and Satan would almost believe that it was genuine if not for the sneaky smile that you have to fight off your lips.

He rolls his eyes.

The boy leaves you be while he cleans up the rest of the gym, picking up all the balls from your practice and depositing them in the cart before dragging it over to the room it's supposed to be stored in overnight.

The blonde is unfamiliar with the whole action of putting athletic equipment away, not having done any sports since his freshman year of high school, but he offers every time. The small amount of time it takes him to clean everything up is virtually the only break you seem to take, and while _you_ don't appear to notice the way your legs have begun to tremble with overexertion at the end of every day, Satan notices. And he will not hesitate to clean up the entire gym if it means you'll take these few minutes of rest.

"We still need to do math," Satan says when he grabs your volleyball bag and sits down next to you. It's the one subject that the two of you can't do over volleyball practice, the one subject that you actually need to sit down and do yourself.

"I'll do it in the morning."

"You always say that, and you never end up doing it."

"There's a first time for everything, isn't there?"

Satan doesn't bother hiding how he rolls his eyes as he pulls your water bottle out of your volleyball bag and shoves it into your hands.

"Drink," He tells you, already getting out your day shoes so you can take your volleyball shoes off and get ready to go home.

"Don't wanna sit up," You drawl, your body still lying on the ground.

"Drink, or I'll make you do math the minute we get back to the dorm."

Satan has never seen you shoot up faster, a small smile gracing his lips when he sees you pop the lid off your bottle and begin chugging it down instantly.

"Ah," You mumble after you've drunk the whole thing. "That felt surprisingly good."

Satan bites back a quiet _I told you so,_ instead opting to gesture for you to switch your sneakers.

He ignores your quiet complaint that he's such a slave driver, that it's unfair he's making you do all this. The truth of the matter is simple: you have a cumulative Shakespeare test in less than twelve hours, and you still haven't read one of the assigned texts.

Time, unfortunately, isn't something either of you have in abundance today.

"Up," Satan demands, grabbing your hand and tugging you to your feet before he drags you out the door.

The entire walk back, you're leaning on him for support, and the blonde staggers more than once as he tries to balance the weight of your volleyball bag in one hand and _you_ in the other. The picture is one that's graced this sidewalk more than once in these past few days, but Satan can't bring himself to care as he internally frets over _how_ he's going to get you to pass this test when you're clearly too tired to properly have a full-on tutoring session. If your nonstop yawning weren't sufficient, the way you practically fall asleep on Satan in the elevator is proof enough that you really are exhausted.

"Take a shower," Is what his final decision is when the two of you arrive back at the dorm, at the little hallway that separates the _665_ of your room and the _666_ of Satan's. "It'll wake you up."

"I don't want to be woken up," You argue, trying to push against Satan to flop onto your bed.

You clearly don't care about the test tomorrow, but Satan does.

"Either take a shower or wake up some other way," The blond hisses, glaring at you. "But you are _not_ going to bed until you've finished reading _King Lear._ And unlike yesterday, I will personally be supervising you to make sure you don't fall asleep in the middle again."

You scowl at that, your earlier pout turning into a harsh glare as you realize that Satan has essentially left you with no choice.

"Fine." You blurt. "I'll shower."

It's only once you've gathered your clothes and toiletries and are gone from the room that Satan realizes just how in-character it would be for you to simply choose to sleep in the shower stalls.

The blonde instantly begins to panic.

He's pacing back and forth in your room by the time you've returned, trying not to bite his nails with his book discarded on the bed because he knows that there's no way he'll be able to get you out of the bathroom if you choose to do so, and that if you really do try to hide out in the shower stalls, it's almost certain that you'll fail your test.

When his eyes catch sight of you, the tension in his body visibly disappears.

"Why were you pacing?" You ask, a teasing laugh slipping from your lips as you dump your other clothes in the hamper. "What, did you think I'd just hide from you in the bathroom?"

"Yes." Satan doesn't bother hiding the truth. "And I'm quite surprised that you didn't."

You open your mouth to speak, but the way you avoid his eyes and fidget with the edge of your T-shirt speaks louder than your refusal to deny his words.

"You did, didn't you?" Satan accuses. "You actually tried to sleep in the shower stalls."

"Madam Scream caught me." You explain quietly, refusing to meet Satan's eyes. "She told me to go sleep in my own bed, and when I tried to tell her I was trying to hide from you, she just got even madder."

A warm laugh spills from Satan's lips. He'll make sure to thank the dormitory administrator when he next sees her.

"Wonderful." He grins. "Now, sit. We have to get through this whole play, and I doubt you've even read the beginning."

"I don't _want_ to, Satan," You plead, your hands flying together in a loose imitation of prayer. "Please, please, _please_ don't make me read it all. I can't. I'll die. My brain will explode."

The blonde sighs. No doubt, you're being unnecessarily melodramatic, but he can see the tones of desperation coloring your eyes. That, and he's been tutoring you long enough to know that you really do loathe reading, enough to make you request to do _math_ instead if that's what it takes to get you out of it.

"Alright," Satan mumbles, picking the book up himself. "I'll read it to you. How does that sound?"

You still look hesitant, and Satan can tell that this wasn't the compromise you were hoping for. Even after your shower, the pull of sleep looks strong, and he can practically _feel_ your bodily exhaustion through the droop of your shoulders. Still, this is all the leeway Satan can give you.

"Fine."

Satan smiles, pulling out a chair and gesturing for you to sit next to him.

"No." Your expression is unchanging as you blink at him. "Bed."

You all but throw yourself onto the mattress, patting the spot next to you expectantly with an impish grin.

"This isn't a _bedtime_ story," Satan hisses, trying to get you to take this seriously. "You need to actively listen to the play. You can't just—"

"I can't hear you if you're not on the bed."

The blonde is impressed with himself when he manages not facepalm.

As usual, Satan is forced to give in to your whims, and he awkwardly slots himself next to you on the bed with a scowl on his face, not bothering to be gentle as he pushes you closer to the wall to make room for himself.

"You have to stay awake," He tells you, voice even. "This is _not_ a bedtime story."

"Yeah, yeah. Just get on with it."

And so he finally does get on with it, awkwardly resting his back against the bed frame while you fiddle with the throw blanket on your lap and listen. It still feels awkward, reading a play out like this where he has to specify the character speaking at the beginning of every new line, but this isn't the first thing Satan has read to you and it certainly won't be the last, so he grows comfortable with the material easily.

The only issue is that you keep squirming your way down to rest your head on the pillow.

"Up," Satan snaps at you when you try to do it while he's in the middle of one of Edmund's _Thou Nature_ monologue. "You have to stay _awake."_

It works to snap you out of your daze, and Satan resumes reading from a few lines earlier, occasionally glancing your way to make sure you're paying attention.

Of course, this only lasts so long. Satan is only on the second act when you lean your head back on the pillow, and he just _barely_ resists the urge to flick you on the forehead to wake you up.

"Come on," He grunts, pulling you back up into a seated position next to him. "This will all be worth it tomorrow when you get a good grade on your test."

You grunt in response.

Satan doesn't know how long this goes on for—him shaking you awake and you quietly trying to fall asleep again—but you eventually seem to have had enough, because by the time Satan is halfway through Act III, you rest your head on his shoulder.

"What are you doing?" The blonde instantly snaps, his eyebrows furrowing. Your hair is still wet from your shower, and you're getting his shirt wet.

"Just try'na read better," You slur drowsily.

Sure enough, your eyes _are_ open and you _do_ seem to be gazing at the words on the page, but Satan is doubtful of your true intentions. After staring at you skeptically for a few moments longer, though, it's clear that you're not going to be moving unless he explicitly asks for it, so the blonde merely continues to read.

 _It's better this way,_ he thinks to himself, feeling your warm breath tickle his neck. _I can at least tell if she's awake._

He tries to pay attention to the rate of your breathing at the back of his mind as he reads through the remainder of the act, gently shaking his shoulder every time he feels the rise and fall of your breaths grow a little _too_ steady.

"Stop moving," You grumble when he shakes you awake again.

"Stop trying to sleep" is Satan's snarky response.

In the fourth act, though, Satan can't help but redirect the attention he was allotting you towards the book at hand. From Edgar's compelling narrative to Cordelia's analysis-worthy decisions, the blonde can't help but forget the outside world as he delves into the play, no longer reading out the lines but softly mumbling them under his breath as his mind lights up with visualizations of every scene. It's truly not Satan's fault that he doesn't notice when your body abruptly feels heavier, your weight no longer shifted away from him but gracelessly deposited onto him, even the gentle rise and fall of your chest against his arm only serving to further lull him into the depths of the play where nothing exists but the characters and their deeds.

Satan only realizes that you're dead asleep when the act ends, when he turns to ask you what you think and you're peacefully laying on his shoulder, long asleep and long gone.

"Hey, wake…" The boy cuts himself off before he can try to shake you awake, a surge of guilt washing over him.

You really do look exhausted.

Which is understandable, given that you had regular practice today and _then_ some with your training-tutoring session with Satan.

He can't blame you for wanting to sleep.

The blonde sighs reluctantly as he closes the book in his hands and awkwardly tries to maneuver you off his shoulder and onto his pillow. You try to cling to his warmth the whole time, but your sleep-addled hands are useless next to Satan's cautious fingers, and within seconds, he's got you under your blankets and atop your pillow.

He'll wake you up early tomorrow, the blonde decides. And he'll finish the play with you, and he'll make sure you pass this test.

But right now, he'll let you get some sleep first.

A good decision, because Satan doesn't think he'd be able to bring himself to wake you even if he wanted to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word count: 5.6k
> 
> Notes: okay so i’m trying to change my writing style so apologies if the flow of this chapter was awkward; i’m really trying to step away from some of my bad habits (while building some new ones!) so i hope that didn’t take away too much from this chapter
> 
> Comment & Leave Kudos
> 
> Thank you for reading <3
> 
> I do not own the rights to Obey Me! or any of the characters within it.


	4. Chapter 4

“Bro, you good?”

Satan blinks the sleep from his eyes at the feeling of a pencil tapping against his shoulder, groggily turning to face the owner of the voice that tore him from his precious slumber.

“...bwha?” is the educated response Satan can come up with in his sleep-addled mind.

Solomon snorts.

“Dude, this is the third time you’ve fallen asleep in class this week.” The white-haired athlete grins. “Keep this up and I’m gonna score better than you on tomorrow’s test.”

“We have a…”

Satan groans inwardly. He has a test tomorrow? The blonde blinks up at the board. It takes a second for his vision to clear, but then it registers that he’s in math class, and everything else falls into place. A quick scan over the whiteboard confirms that Satan didn’t miss anything important, that the chapter the teacher is covering is something Satan taught himself roughly two years back, but the boy still groans to himself in frustration. He doesn’t like to sleep through class. Ever.

“Thanks for waking me up,” Satan mumbles to his friend when he glances at the clock. It seems that Solomon let him doze for nearly the entire period, opting to wake him up a mere minute before the bell should ring. 

“No problem. But seriously, I’ve never seen you slack this hard. You good?”

“I’m fine. I’m just tired because…” Satan trails off, hesitant to confess that the reason he’s so exhausted is because of you. No doubt, Solomon would read way too deeply into that—nope, wait, it looks like Solomon figured it out on his own from the shit-eating grin he’s now sporting.

“Ah, your future girlfriend, is it?” Solomon leans back in his chair, grinning. “The love life is rough, buddy. Make sure you’re using protection at night, though.”

Satan has never been more relieved to hear a bell ring.

“Would you lower your voice?” He growls when a couple of kids passing by give him weird looks. Satan glares hard at Solomon, but the latter gives a grand total of zero (0) shits.

“Sorry,” Solomon says in a voice that makes it all too clear that he’s not sorry.

Satan has never hated his schedule more than in the next moment when he realizes that Solomon is in his next class and that they can’t split ways. Worse yet, it’s Physical Education—the stupidest course of all time because all it consists of is kids walking in circles for an entire hour and being “encouraged” to run. And somehow, to top it off, Satan always ends up walking with Solomon. 

“We’re not together,” Satan grunts to his friend when they’re outside doing laps around the track. “It’s just that it’s fucking hard to balance club duties, her volleyball schedule, and my own studies.” 

“I totally get it,” Solomon blurts. “But you’ve gotta get used to it, bro. Imagine how much harder it’s gonna be to when the two of you start dating! You’ll have to take her out on dates, and—fuck—have you ever been to one of her games? She has crazy stamina, man. The two of you’ll be at it all night.”

Satan thinks back to freshman orientation, wondering why, of all the places to sit, he chose the seat next to the most annoying person in the entire academy. 

“Solomon, can you shut the fuck up?”

Solomon, unsurprisingly, does not shut the fuck up.

With enough difficulty, Satan does finally manage to steer the topic away from Solomon’s matchmaking attempts and towards more normal topics. Namely, Satan’s matchmaking attempts. Of course, just as Satan places no weight on Solomon’s opinions on his love life, Solomon completely ignores Satan’s advice to stop beating around the bush and just ask Asmo out, the athlete having the nerve to say “I’ll ask Asmo out when you ask our volleyball captain out”—as if you and Satan have a remotely similar history to Asmo and Solomon, who, as now known by the entire campus, are both desperately pining for each other but are too dumb to see it.

Satan sighs, shaking his head.

 _Idiots,_ he thinks. _I’m surrounded by idiots._

It’s to this thought that Satan hears someone calling his name in the distance: an extremely familiar voice, almost grating on the ears, but a voice he knows he should not be hearing. 

Satan shakes his head, deciding that he’ll clear up his schedule today so he gets a nap in because surely, _surely_ he must be imagining you calling his voice. Surely you’re not actually on this track field. Surely you’re not cutting _English_ , of all courses, a subject that Satan insists you pay extra attention to because it’s the single course you're most likely to fail.

“Bro,” Solomon whispers, eyebrows raised in disbelief.

Satan closes his eyes, trying to see if pretending that he doesn’t hear your footsteps sprinting closer and closer towards him will make it so that they’re not real.

It doesn’t work.

“Satan!” You shriek, now close enough that he can’t pretend you’re a figment of his imagination anymore. “Satan! Satan, Satan, Satan!”

The blonde continues staring resolutely forward, committing himself to the ideology of _I do not see it, therefore it is not happening._

Unfortunately, Satan sees it. And so it happens.

Without any warning whatsoever, you lurch forward and grapple on to Satan, wrapping your limbs around him like a literal koala as you yeet yourself onto him with enough force that Satan is just _barely_ able to remain standing when you attach yourself to him while shrieking: ”Satan! Guess what, guess what!”

The blonde is at a loss for words, so dumbfounded and taken aback that it’s all he can do to sputter out a confused “w-what?” 

You grin at him with a smile so wide it looks like it hurts, and Satan can only stare as you reveal what made you so happy.

“I got an 85 on the Shakespeare test!” 

_The Shakespeare test,_ the man thinks, trying to remember.

 _The Shakespeare test,_ he repeats in his mind, a vision of you cram-reading the final acts of _King Lear_ flashing through his mind

 _The Shakespeare test!_ Satan realizes with a start, suddenly recalling how it was a test he expected you to fail.

Satan’s mouth drops open at that. He had been prepared for you to get a 20, a 30; the highest you told him to expect was a 60, and even that was below the fail margin, but an 85? Holy shit, Satan might cry if _he_ got a grade like that, but for you, it’s a genuine accomplishment, and he’s fucking proud.

“You’re joking,” he blurts, already calculating how this will affect your average and, holy shit, it’s actually going to pull you up to a passing grade.

“I’m not!” you declare with so much happiness that it’s infectious, and then the two of you are hugging and laughing except that Satan’s literally carrying you so it’s awkward, but neither of you care because this is the highest grade you’ve pulled all year, and Satan is finally beginning to feel like the late hours and the sleepless nights are all worth it.

The two of you are grinning and beaming at each other even when you finally de-koala yourself from Satan and land on the ground; and it’s at this precise moment that Satan realizes just how many people are watching. 

The blonde clears his throat awkwardly. 

It felt so natural when you tackled Satan midair, but he’s now beginning to realize just how intimate that whole scene looked to any onlookers. He stiffens, and you seem to notice, your own demeanor turning sheepish in turn.

A low whistle from next to you diffuses the situation.

“An 85, huh?” Solomon slings an arm around your shoulder, sandwiching you between him and Satan as the three of you continue walking along the track field—effectively sending a message to anyone watching that the show is over. “Not bad, Captain, not bad.”

“It’s amazing, Solomon!” you cry out in turn, grinning as you lean into his shoulder. (Satan doesn’t feel weird when he sees that, he swears he doesn’t.) “I haven’t scored this high since, well, I dunno. I don’t really pay attention to the scores I get because they’re always so low!”

Solomon laughs at that, definitely remembering when he was the same way. 

“It’s all thanks to Satan, no?” Solomon prods, and the blonde shoots a sharp look at his friend. He’s up to something. Satan isn’t sure if he wants to know what.

“Oh, definitely! He literally read every single text out loud to me! I left this one book for the very last day, and he actually stayed with me and—”

“You need to get back to class,” Satan swiftly interrupts, his ears turning red. “You did well on one test, but you need to pay attention if you want to continue.”

“Oh, but—”

Satan practically shoves you away, gesturing wildly the whole time with a vigor that has you confused but compliant as you slowly depart, doubtlessly making your way back to the English building as slowly as you possibly can.

When you’re gone, Solomon snorts.

“You read to her?” He asks, expression brimming with mirth.

“It’s not—it’s an effective studying technique that we use to save time—”

“Oh my god,” Solomon mumbles under his breath, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye. “Next thing you know, I’ll find out that she’s sleeping on your shoulder or something. Seriously, Satan, way to make a move early on.”

Satan is incredibly grateful that Solomon doesn’t see how his face changes at that part, a flush rising on his cheeks when he realizes that you’ve fallen asleep on his shoulder not once, now, but several times. 

“Shut up,” Satan grumbles, trying to end the conversation as quickly as possible.

“No way, man!” Solomon cackles with laughter, finding great amusement in his friend’s frustration. “Oh my god, the two of you are so perfect for each other that it hurts! Here, take a look at this—”

Solomon pulls up his phone and opens up his Photo Gallery, swiping twice before handing it over to Satan.

“Just look at that, dude—” he gestures vaguely at the picture. “You two already look like you’re dating.”

Satan stares at the image, his feet slowing down. It’s a picture of you and Satan hugging, taken conveniently when you were still koala-ing Satan with your entire body because _of course_ Solomon was able to get a picture that quickly, and although Satan can’t see either of your faces due to the side angle, even he has to acknowledge that the two of you really do look like a couple.

“It’s not like that,” Satan mumbles, shaking his head as he hands the phone back to Solomon. 

This might be the first time, though, that he actually entertains the thought of what it would be if it _was_ like that.

It’s not a terrible thought.

* * *

You hate away-scrimmages for a lot of reasons.

The first reason is that, more often than not, the environment is hostile. The other team is always bound to have more support, more cheering, more motivation powering them forward while yours has nothing more than the girls on the bench and the loud voice of your coach. 

The second reason is that they always feel like a waste of time. Scrimmages, by nature, are meant to be an extension of practice. So what’s the point of a scrimmage if you spend more time driving to the school than you spend playing against the school? It’s totally backwards, in your opinion, and pretty stupid.

The third reason is the most compelling reason, though. And it’s probably because this is the issue you’re dealing with right now: the fact that at away-scrimmages, if there does happen to be someone from your school who puts in the time and effort to come watch, the pressure on your shoulders instantly triples. Scrimmages are supposed to be fun, enjoyable. They’re nothing more than practice matches to collect data and get ready for when you’ll go against the school for real—but when people from your school travel such a long distance to watch you play not even a game but a _scrimmage_ , it feels like you owe it to them to bring home a win, to succeed, to make the match worth their while.

And while Satan doubtlessly had no intentions of adding to your stress when he asked to watch you play at today's scrimmage, that’s exactly what has happened.

“Listen, girls,” your voice is low as your team groups up in what will likely be the last huddle of the match. “I want us to win this. Really badly. Do what it takes, but bring home that victory.” You take a moment to recite the weaknesses of the other team, trying to downplay their skill and build confidence in your own teammates, but ultimately, you all know the truth. “It all comes down to how we play this point, girls, so let’s play our best.”

You glance around at your teammates, stealing a glance at the bleachers where Satan sits, watching the scrimmage.

You want to make him proud.

“Wolves on three: one, two, three—”

“Wolves!” your teammates echo, raising their fists as the lot of you split off into your serve receive positions.

As it stands, match point is weighing against you, and your team is at a heavy disadvantage. From what you’ve gathered on the opposing team, their libero is a literal legend when it comes to front row saves, and they have an amazing right-side hitter, one that easily rivals your own skill. This entire game, their team has been leading, but all your team needs to secure victory is a measly three points, three points that you _know_ you can obtain if you try hard enough.

You crouch low, getting ready for the opposing team’s serve.

The first two points are easy for your team to get: the first point comes when the opposing team’s outside hitter rams the ball into the net, and the second comes when your team's right-side hitter manages a clean hit through a line of defense that jumped a second too late.

The final point, as always, is the hardest to get.

It just so happens that it’s your serve, so you consciously aim at what you think is the weakest link in the opposing team, but they’re able to recover. From then on, it’s an intense volley back and forth until it’s just you versus the right-side hitter, #18, the two of you fighting it out in a rhythmic contest of pass-set-hit that just won’t end.

It’s at this time that you feel the pressure beating down on you heavier than ever before. More than anything, you want to win. Not just because you’re naturally competitive, not just because you _really_ fucking hate #18 right now (seriously, what business does she have being as good as you?), but because you know that Satan is watching. 

You really, really, really want to bring home a win for him.

It’s to this thought that you set the ball over on the first touch, sabotaging the flow of the game and ruining the other team’s momentum. 

It happens in slow motion as the ball falls, slowly, slowly.

The entire room seems to hold its breath as three girls on the opposing team, #18 included, all pancake-dive for the ball. Sensing their success, you bend your knees, preparing for the ball’s return.

It never comes.

The blow of the ref’s whistle is surreal, almost as faraway as the subsequent cheers of your own team, so empty and distant as they instantly group up for a team tackle—but for the first time, you don’t join them. 

Instead, you’re left staring up at Satan who, from his spot on the bleachers, is grinning down at you with a proud look on his face.

You don’t think you’ve ever been so happy to win a scrimmage. 

Everything else passes by in a blur. Your team regroups and changes out of your uniforms, and the lot of you board the bus that’s set to bring you back to the Royal Academy of Barbatos. 

You, however, stay back.

“I’ll get a ride from my tutor,” you tell your coach, bidding farewell to your friends. 

The man arches an eyebrow at you, asking once and then twice if you’re certain you don’t want to stay with the team, but you nod your head. 

_Weird,_ you think as you go to find Satan, who’s waiting for you at his car. _This must be the first time I’ve prioritized someone else over the team._

You decide not to dwell on that thought. 

Instead, you choose to think about how sick Satan’s ride is.

“Oh my god,” you mumble, gawking as soon as you see the car. “Satan, I knew you were loaded, but I had no clue you were _this_ loaded.”

Satan laughs at your reaction, grinning when you can do nothing but stand and stare at the sheer beauty of it: a slick, black Bugatti with a single green stripe down the middle. 

“Oh, it’s beautiful,” you coo, marveling at the interior when you slide into the passenger seat and slug your volleyball bag unceremoniously in the back. “Satan, I think I like this car better than I like _you.”_

The blonde gives a short laugh, rolling his eyes as he gets inside next to you. “I’ll let you drive it someday,” he offers.

You’re quick to decline, shuddering to think about how many more sports scholarships you’d need to ever pay such a thing off if you were to crash it. 

Satan can only smile at that, mumbling something under his breath that you can’t hear.

“Your match was amazing, by the way,” he says before you can probe him about what he said. “It looked really intense. It’s impressive that you were able to keep a level head even at the end.”

You don’t tell Satan that your head wasn’t level, that you were practically dizzy with fear from the possibility of losing in front of him.

“It comes with practice,” you instead choose to say. “Something we’ve gotta do tonight!”

“Please tell me you’re joking.”

You shoot Satan an innocent smile in response.

“Your match lasted a good hour, and I saw you practicing with your team before your bus left.” Satan shakes his head, a frown beginning to spread across his lips. “You’re going to destroy your muscles if you try to do any more. Even you need to rest.”

“Yeah, but resting is boring.” You lean back in your seat and stare at your palms. “Besides, that scrimmage was way too close for comfort. Didn’t you see number eighteen? She was, like, really good. If both our teams make it to the state tournament, we’re going to have a lot of trouble dealing with her unless we practice like crazy until then.”

“Exactly,” Satan says. “Your team needs to practice, not you. The best thing you can do for them is relax and make sure you don’t overexert yourself.”

“But don't you want to reward me for getting a good grade on my Shakespeare test?” A smile curls onto your lips because you know that's something Satan has been thinking about. “Come on, just a few balls? It’ll be quick, I promise. I just want to try a few moves out.”

Satan lets out an exasperated sigh that lets you know he’s agreeing.

“Yes!” You exclaim, resisting the urge to jump out of your seat and hug him because he probably won't be as inclined to help you if you make him crash his car. “Thank you so much, Satan! I won’t be long, I promise!”

The blonde doesn’t say anything to that, sighing softly as he switches his destination from the student parking lot to the on-campus gym you usually conduct your practice sessions in. It takes a while, but when the two of you get there, the spot Satan pulls into is far from the doors. It's a necessity since all the other spots are taken, but it makes you raise an eyebrow because this is the first time you’ve seen this gym even remotely filled up.

You nudge Satan out of his car regardless.

“Alright, so today I want you to make my tosses higher than normal. Number eighteen was taller than me, so I’ll need to increase my jump height if I want to be able to break past her defense.” You pull him to the door, wasting no time to get inside. “And don’t worry if your tosses aren’t perfect! It’ll be good practice for...for when…”

Your train of thought is disrupted when you see how packed the gym is.

“Damn,” Satan mumbles next to you, frowning. 

There must be some kind of athletic event coming up. That's the only explanation you can think of for the picture in front of you. As it stands, there are tons of students inside this gym, everyone practicing their own sport. It’s ridiculous, honestly, because even sports that are traditionally outdoors are practicing inside. You can see Solomon leading his soccer team through a few drills on the far side of the court, taking up one half of one of the six nets set up in the gym.

“They must be here because it’s so muddy outside. All the outdoor sports are practicing inside.” Satan crosses his arms. “Let’s come back tomorrow. You’re not going to be able to get an effective practice in.”

“No!” you immediately exclaim, if only because you see a group of people setting up to leave. “Look, we can take that side of the court. Let’s go! I don’t want someone else to get there first.”

It’s a bit harder to find a spare cart of volleyballs than it was to find a spot to practice, but after checking enough supply rooms, you finally find what you’re looking for. After that, it takes you all of two minutes to wheel the cart over to Satan where you present your findings to him proudly.

“Shouldn’t you stretch first?” He frowns. “I don’t want you to get injured.”

“Come on, Satan. I just came back from a match! My muscles are all loosened up, so let’s get straight into it! The faster we can get this done, the faster we can return to the dorm, so let’s hurry!”

The boy doesn’t look wholly convinced, but he acquiesces to your request nonetheless, throwing you a toss higher than usual as you jump to slam it down.

It’s only once the two of you have returned to your usual rhythm that you begin to feel the stretch in your thighs, and for a moment, you stop to consider the fact that it might have been better if you’d stretched after all, but you ultimately decide that you’ve already started so there’s no point in stopping.

The practice whizzes by, as usual. It's almost pitiful how quickly the end of it nears.

“Three more balls,” Satan says, glancing at the number of balls left in the cart. “Then we go back, alright?”

“Sure thing!” you exclaim with pride, the familiar sense of satisfaction after a practice session well-done setting in.

Satan tosses you the third-last ball, and your feet begin following it as soon as it leaves his fingers. Your feet follow a familiar pattern—left, right, left, jump!—and you force yourself to put in a little bit of extra power to increase the height of your jump, letting your palm collide with the ball just a few inches beneath the peak of the arc to let it slam onto the court at an angle so steep that even a reinforced defense wouldn’t have been able to save it.

“Perfect!” you shout the moment your feet land on the floor. “Two more like that, and we’re set!”

Even Satan can’t hold off a smile at that.

Already in-tune with you, he doesn’t bother asking if you’re ready before throwing the next ball into the air. 

Again, you go through the motions that have been ingrained into your muscle memory since you were eight years old. The sting of pain against your palm is familiar, too familiar, and you’re still high in your jump when the ball spikes down onto the floor.

What isn’t familiar is the immediate calls of concern from across the court.

Everything seems to happen in slow motion.

You turn your head to the source of the noise, the loud group of soccer players who are on the far side of the gym and are all shouting to watch out. You stare at them in confusion for a moment, squinting to look for what they're all pointing at, because right now you don’t see anything _to_ watch out for, and why—

Your eyebrows furrow.

Why are they all looking at you?

That thought is the only warning you get before your feet land—and the first thing you realize is that you landed way too early, that you should have been in the air for longer given the height of your jump. That’s when you realize that you haven’t landed, that your foot is instead twisting on top of a soccer ball that’s rolled directly underneath you.

Your hands go out to catch yourself when you fall, but there’s nothing you can do about the swell of pain that bursts from your ankle when the soccer ball pops out from underneath you.

There’s a moment of trepidation, a single second where your body is completely suspended in the air, and the gym is silent.

In that quiet moment, you hear Satan call out your name in a terrified voice.

Then, the ground collides with you and _hard,_ and there’s nothing you can do as the pain you’d been feeling earlier blossoms out from all parts of your body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word count: 4.3k
> 
> Notes: ive returneddd :D this chapter is dedicated to the vball captain who, in my freshman year of high school, injured herself. her injury was more dramatic, given that it was way more severe and it was during an important match, but, irene, i carry you in my heart <3
> 
> Comment & Leave Kudos
> 
> Thank you for reading <3
> 
> I do not own the rights to Obey Me! or any of the characters within it.


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